


Envinyanta

by heartstone



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arda Healed, Dagor Dagorath, M/M, Second Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 00:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18789370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstone/pseuds/heartstone
Summary: Nothing lasts forever. In those final few moments before Time itself was utterly spent, the seconds dwindled to hours and minutes seemed to last a lifetime.***The last few notes of the Theme play out.





	Envinyanta

Nothing lasts forever. In those final few moments before Time itself was utterly spent, the seconds dwindled to hours and minutes seemed to last a lifetime.

The fighting had stopped with the last quiver of Túrin’s mighty war-cry. It splintered the sound around it, wrenching it from the ears of all listening. In a final tone, it lingered in the air and faded into a deep hum that bled into silence. Quiet now, not even the wind could make a whisper. 

_“One chord, deeper than the Abyss, higher than the firmament, and piercing as the light of the eye of Ilúvatar. . .”_

Blood droplets fell onto the muddied, trampled earth, falling with a final glimmer of lingering heat. They cooled as they fell, couching themselves in the dirt like rubies, a ruby which grew and grew and grew. All stood watch, entranced, counting the droplets as they fell, as they made a pool of liquid red. _Drop. Drop. Drop._ The impact was heavy, a heartbeat thudding in the armies that stood, weapons lowered, as they, mesmerized, felt the fall of those gems strike against their own ribs.

Time drew onward, strangled like the soundless fields, vibrating the dust and dirt with its effort. The world grew dim, as with the stars covered with a black wind, as if light could no longer pierce the darkness and its rays at last suffocated in the embrace of shadows. Only a single beam of radiance shone from the center of the grim haze like the memory of the sun, the memory of Laurelin. Wheeling flames churned, unseeing the skies, cooling, fraying, extinguished like a candle blown until smoke curled from the pupils. The world shuddered.

All weapons fall from all hands, even Gurthang, satiated, disintegrates to slivers of corroded metal.

In His hands He holds wet ashes, yet it feels most like lead, too solid and too heavy. It leaves crimson on His fingertips, and stains His arms red.

_Drop. Drop. Drop._ Each glimmer is an agony. In a twist of overburdening grief He trembles and cannot rip His gaze away from the Flame Imperishable, perished. Swaying, He spasms and the warmth of Arda leaves as the sound afore it. Above, the stars glare hard and cold from the dimmed celestial spheres, bleeding out one by one: Carnil and Luinil, Nénar and Lumbar, Alcarinquë and Elemmírë. All quenched as with mighty black waves. Valacirca wavers, and Menelmacar pulses and they are swallowed last of all until the sky was illumined now only with the unkind needle-point of the Mariner.

Curse the Father who looks down upon us all! In the end He always wins. But what victory is worthy of such carnage?

None, none is worthy, the Lord of All now knows, and hunched over the the body He holds so dear, grey instead of gold, cold instead of warm: the last stretch of Time comes nigh and the final notes of the Theme play out. The droplets fall, and ruby turns to obsidian as colour fades. Face of grief withers, youth and beauty and wrath and hate gone, cracking as it flakes and rots like a painting too old, like paper crumbling, like rust peeling. His body becomes the ashes He clutches. Relinquished, all begins to fade with Him as in a dusty cascade. The armies fall to their kneels, diminishing into dust as flowers after vigorous May.

_“So that they are its life and it is theirs. . .”_

The wind swirls with ash and chalk and the earth, too, is tired. Atoms quiver, unable to hold their electrons, unable to hold to each other. Swirling, all that is left is the wind as the mountains fall, as the water smudges into thin mist, as the rocks chip into sand. Swirling, swirling, swirling, it forms rings of debris around decaying shadow and flames no longer hot.

And in a blink all is gone, all is black. Eons and eons spread the void, vacant, bare. But still, it seems, there is within a steady _drop, drop, drop_ of haematic red.

A song again begins to build, like long ago but with more voices. The harps and choirs are perfect in their harmony, in their beauty: but their song is still full of pain. And in the midst, the One sits and hearkens, and He trembles, and from His palms spill ashes, and in those ashes are faint little seeds, like rubies.

_“Then the themes of Ilúvatar shall be played aright, and take Being the moment of their utterance. . .”_

And they sang of a shifting shadow, and in His arms He held a flame, golden and warm.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Finals are done! I should be back to writing again :D  
> Just in case this was a little too scatter-brained: Mairon jumped in front of Túrin's fatal stab at Melkor and died, and then Melkor, realizing that going on to win was worthless without Mairon, relinquishes His fëa and dies too. Since Melkor was so entwined with the earth, Arda crumbles to dust with Him and the world ends.  
> Just want to mention that the italicized text within quotes is taken directly from the Silmarillion.  
> ***


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